Elven Dunedain
by Annaicuru
Summary: This fic CAN be read on its own; but centers on the same character as "The Daughter Of Elves And Men". Tells of the half-elven Dunedain Mithmir; who is determined to not let her sex stop her from being a ranger like any other of her kin... Please R&R co
1. Not Just A Girl

THIS FANFIC CAN BE READ ON IT'S OWN, so please do, but it is a kind of prequel to "**The Daughter Of Elves And Men**", and centers around the same character.  

This is the first, long-awaited tale of Mithmír's past.  I can't promise that there will be as much plot as there is in the others (I'll try to make something big occur, though), but it will definitely give you an idea of how Mithmír has matured over the years.  At the moment there is only one chapter which can stand on its own; so if you don't enjoy it I won't carry on, and if you do… what can I say.  There will be more.

At present she is sixteen, going on seventeen (not intentionally quoting a musical!), and is wandering the wild places of Eriador as a ranger.  She's a bit more "wild" at this age; and quite passionate (she gets angry quickly, and bears grudges).

Enjoy it and please review!

***

It was high summer, and the door to the Prancing Pony was wide open to allow a better circulation of fresh air.   It seemed that near all of the male population of Bree and the surrounding towns were inside; sampling Barliman Butterbur's fine ales, and wetting their tongues for a hard morning's gossiping.  It was a prosperous year for the Bree folk; and the harvest would be exceptional, if the great fertility of the fields was anything to go by.  Most of the earnest chatter was on the weather; and the crops; and some news of the more serious affairs in the Shire.  The more enthusiastic conversations, between the men who had already managed to become mostly inebriate by only eleven in the morning, included rumors; speculations; and hilarious tales of those odd folk in the Shire.

Barliman was his usual bustling self, moving around his premises with all the speed of a small tornado and the efficiency of a bee.  He entered the room with a sheen of sweat over his rounded face; wearing his usual grimy apron; and carrying the characteristic half-dozen tankards of beer in his hands.  He stopped on the threshold, looked around the room, and raised his eyebrow when his gaze caught certain people – those who had called for more drink.  He then moved about the crowded room, shouting hurried greetings as he went, handing out the ale and collecting the equivalent sum in small coins.

His last port of call was far over in the darkest corner of the room, near the stairs and – conveniently for the occupant – the door.  There was a single table against the wall; and at it was a figure swathed in a grey traveler's cloak that looked as worn as if it had seen all the miles of Middle Earth.  The person slouched back in the chair, heavily booted feet on the table beside a hefty sword – sheathed, Butterbur was pleased to see.  Butterbur knew who it was instinctively – one of the odd rangers, that much was for sure, but what was more, he knew which one in particular.  And even more odd still, this was only a girl not yet twenty.

He put the mug down on the table with a clang.  She was well aware of his thinly veiled hint to remove her boots from the table, but she ignored him.  She knew he would show her as much respect as she merited, which was considerable.  The people of Bree, stuck with their heads in the sand, may dislike and distrust her, but they didn't normally bother her.  'There you go, lady Ranger,' the innkeeper said gruffly.  He wished she'd take off her hood and try not to look so _secretive_.  She may have things to hide – what ranger's didn't?  They weren't overly trustworthy, any of them – but she put the other customers on edge.  She always paid her dues, though, he had to admit, and her tips were often mighty generous.  There were some folk who would have you believe that rangers protected the Bree lands from danger – though that was all drunken blabbering, reason told him.  The rangers were an odd race, and no mistake; and they were certainly not someone you should like to meet in a dark ally.  They did no serious harm, but little good either.

'Thank you, Barliman,' she replied in that odd voice of hers – assured without being distinctly arrogant, calm without being overly serene.  Almost _elvish _he should have called it; had he ever met one of the Fair Folk.  He was instantly glad he hadn't called her by the name _Wild-cat_, which is what the village men used for her.  That was guaranteed to put him in for a totally different tone – scolding and very, very frightening when it was coupled with a sword openly displayed.  'How is the year for Bree then?'  She asked vaguely as she drew two coins from her pocket and put them in his outstretched hand.  He noticed that she bit her nails.

'Very good, lady Ranger,' he answered stoutly, determined to not be prejudiced between his customers.  He had long got over the fact that she drank no ale and only water or a little wine, normally the finest in his cellars; and was not surprised to see her take a deep swig of her most basic of drinks.  'The farmers say the crops are growing well; and what with all the dwarves staying in Bree on their way to the Mountains in the West, my trade has been roaring, thankfully.'

'That's good, then,' she replied softly.  Butterbur, feeling dismissed, bowed and walked away shaking his head.  For such a young girl she had an incredible amount of presence.  He felt young when he was around her.

The girl's name was Mithmír Rochiwen, and she, being a half-elf, was the only Elven Dúnedain of that time.  She looked around the stuffy room with mixed emotions; a mild distaste tempered with a strong urge to protect these people in their secluded, innocent existence.  Mithmír had never been satisfied with being told, in her youth, that only _male _Dúnedain became Rangers.  She had pointed out angrily that _she _would be the exception; and now, in her sixteenth year, she had lived up to that statement.  She wandered with as much freedom as her male counterparts; and fought as fiercely and bravely as any man, and better than many.  Her connections with her mother's Elven kin had made her wise and mature beyond her years.

Butterbur pointed towards the corner where Mithmír sat.  'There be the Wild-cat,' he said firmly.  'Sitting on her own in the corner.'

The brawny man spat onto the rush-covered ground.  'She should skulk alone indeed!  I'll go and talk to her now then, and sort this unpleasant business out.'  Butterbur shied away from the farmer as he swaggered arrogantly away.  Farmer Bullsway had a reputation which was known all through the Bree land.  He was aggressive and a liar; but a powerful one with many followers who would gladly back him up.  He wondered what the Ranger had done to get on the wrong side of such a dangerous man.  He almost pitied the fact that she did not have another Ranger with her here – it should definitely be a help if a face-off was initiated.  He winced.  A brawl was the last thing he needed today.

Mithmír didn't move as the well-muscled man drew up a chair and dropped down onto it.  He was obviously trying to intimidate her with his impressive bulk, and with any other he would have succeeded, but the Rangers were of a better line than most, and Mithmír counted as high even among them.  She didn't even blink as he spread himself out on the chair; his macho display not fazing her.  She'd had to cope with many of _his _type before; and would have to deal with many more again.  He was no problem for a well-seasoned warrior such as herself.

Farmer Bullsway was slightly knocked off-balance by her calm, disconcerting gaze.  For some unfathomable reason he felt at a distinct disadvantage.  'Wild-cat,' he snarled aggressively and in as loud a tone as he could manage.  There was quiet in the bar, as he had hoped; and the assembled drinkers began to gather around to see "some fun".  Few if any would bet on the slim, slight, _female_ Ranger being the victor of _this _fight.  'Faramir Bullsway has a bone to pick with ye.'

'Yes?'  Replied Mithmír politely.  Her quick, dark eyes skimmed over the table and immediate surroundings.  She expertly judged how far away the hilt of her sword was; and estimated that if things got too nasty she could make a quick exit in under six footsteps.  Nonchalantly she shifted her position, drawing her feet off the table.  Naïvely, the man assumed it to be a sign of weakness.  Not a skilled fighter, he didn't realize that now not only her sword could be used, but her two daggers could be drawn quickly from her belt.

'I woke up this morn to find my six cows, all good milk-givers, _gone _from their barn!'  He said gruffly, looking around the audience, who nodded in sympathy.  Cries of agreement went up from the crowd.  To Barliman Butterbur, watching anxiously from the corner, they looked like hounds baying for blood.

'And?'  Asked Mithmír, looking incredibly relaxed as she finished the last of her water.  It would be a pity to have it spilt and wasted; for it was better and purer than any she partook of on her journeys.  Her dark eyes glinted dangerously.

'It was _ye _who took them!'  He bellowed, bringing his fist down with incredible force on the table.  Mithmír was glad she had finished her drink, for the mug fell to the floor with a smash.  She made a mental note to leave Barliman some coin for it: she was not unreasonable; and not too poor as to not pay what was due either.

She nodded slowly, moving her hand to lazily rest on her sword.  The man was dimmer than she had anticipated, she realized with a slight tightening of her stomach – not fear but anticipation.  He wasn't going to realize her prowess as a warrior and back off without a fight, which could not end well for him.  'Someone must have released them.  Cows, however much milk they produce, do not open barn doors.  I hardly think I could have been responsible, however – I only arrived in Bree this morning, off the East Road.'

'Don't lie to me, you stinking Wild-cat Ranger!'  He cried in rage, a dull fire leaping into his eyes, the cows forgotten (they were wandering aimless in his fields, let out by an unruly stable-hand).  'Your people have never been any good to anyone and I don't see that changing anytime soon.  What kind of woman wanders alone and plays as a man, carrying a _sword_?'  He sneered.  'You are nothing but a filthy pay-woman, looking for buyers, aiming to pollute the fair town of Bree with your body…'

A pure rage erupted in her at this untrue words; and she lived up to her name in the town, unable to contain her wild anger.  With a cry she launched herself at him, knocking over the table first and him second, landing with a thump on top of him.  The watchers began to cry, 'fight!  Fight!  Fight!', and they drowned out Butterbur's calls to stop.  The farmer was strong she found, if lacking her finesse.  He began to pummel her with heavy blows, shouting as he fought.  She dodged the blows, not realizing that her hood had fallen back and her pointed, Elven ears were revealed.  Luckily for her, in the heat of the moment few others noticed either.  Elves were not welcomed in Bree.

He threw her from him and got up awkwardly.  Mithmír, however, leapt nimbly to her feet, and her twin daggers were flashes of silver in her hands.  They circled each other for a few minutes, each trying to find an opening in the other's guard.  Mithmír wasn't keen on shedding any unnecessary blood, and the adrenaline surge caused by her anger was wearing off, leaving her disgusted at her behavior.  This half-drunken lout wasn't even worth her attention.

The man's own bulk was his downfall in the end.  With a final cry of, 'ye'll never return to Bree again after I'm through with ye, Ranger!' he charged at her, putting all his weight behind the maneuver.

'Fool,' whispered Mithmír with a grim smile, knowing the fight was over.  She rolled easily aside; leaving him, unable to stop his movement as quickly as was necessary, to hit the wall with a sickening thud.  In a second she was back by the dazed man's side, leaning over him with a victorious grin on her face.

'Never think you can beat a woman and an Elf,' she whispered.  'Consider yourself lucky you aren't dead.'  She got to her feet easily, sheathing her daggers, much to the relief of the now-horrified crowd.  'Respect the Rangers who protect you more than you'll ever know,' she spat finally, and then – tossing a generous amount of coin to Barliman for his trouble – walked boldly out of the Prancing Pony.

Barliman was left standing, gaping at the money in his hand, in the middle of the chaos.  After a moment had passed he pocketed the coins – still mulling over their impressive collective amount – and sighed.  He surveyed the damage: one broken mug, and a table on the ground.  More difficult to fix were the shocked looks on the faces of his customers, and the half-conscious, soon-to-be-fuming-with-anger Farmer Bullsway on the ground.  Not that the braggart hadn't deserved it.  He shook his head and waded into repair both.  It was all in a day's work as the innkeeper of the Prancing Pony.

Though granted, the female Ranger made things a lot more interesting than usual.

***

Hope you enjoyed this glimpse of Mithmír's rather turbulent time as a teenager.  Something makes me think Aragorn is not going to be happy about this little display…  LOL.  Please review.


	2. A Momentary Friend

Thanks so much for all the reviews; as well as the one on "Daughter".  I owe all of you guys so much!

This chapter is mostly to illustrate the average attitude towards Rangers in Bree; and the few opinions that disagree with the common consensus (I think that's the right word).

I am shocked to realize just how many background stories on Mithmír there will be…  I _promise _I will put up the stories explaining the mysteries in her family a.s.a.p.  Just bear with me.  :)

Enjoy, and please review!

***

Mithmír stepped into the morning sunshine; and the fresh air blew the final traces of that untamable rage out of her.  She stopped still there for a second, poised perfectly in a cat-like stance.  She savored the cool wind that blew her hair in eddies around her ears for barely a few seconds before she reached up and pulled her grey hood forward over her head.  It should not do for the Bree folk to find out her status as an Elf: any strangers here were mistrusted, whether they come often by the Prancing Pony or no, and those of different race even more.

She turned her dark eyes to the East, and wondered for the first time where she should now go.  It should be unwise, she knew, to return to the inn.  Better to steer clear of there for a while, until tempers had cooled and grudges were half-forgotten.  Nowhere in Bree or the surrounding villages should be open to her, either: her little "display" had closed off those options.  She scowled a little.  Her uncle Aragorn – called "Strider" by the more naïve folk – was _not _going to be happy with her; and neither was her father Dîntir, though he would be more gentle in his anger.  She shrugged: it could not be helped.  There was only one place she could go: well away from Bree, for a little while at least.

The Shire was not open for her at that time: the hobbits were mistrustful of her kind; and she had no wish to disturb the peaceful, eccentric little folk; who truth to tell amused her somewhat.  She did not wish to pass South or North; for it was from the North that she had come, and the South held no promise in all its long miles for her, or at least it did not at that time.  She looked to the East with purpose now, and decided instantly that she should pass by Weathertop, along the East Road, all the way to Rivendell.  There dwelt in  peace and happiness many of her kin, including her mother Lómwing.  They would greet her kindly and be glad to see her, she knew.

She was distracted by a woman who, dressed in the usual bright dress and carrying several baskets, hurried past.  She was obviously struggling to carry the heavy load; and her not-unpleasant face was reddened with exhertion.  Mithmír was not unkindly; and she called out,

'May I help, lady?'  She moved forward nimbly, and took three of the baskets from the woman; who smiled in thanks and moved the last two baskets to a more comfortable position in her arms.

'My thanks,' she said with a bend around her knees that was probably intended to be a curtsy, but Mithmír couldn't be sure.  On closer inspection she perceived the woman was a somewhat portly, motherly figure, with hair that was tinged with grey and a face creased with laughter lines.  She may have been forty-five, maybe fifty, but of her age Mithmír could not be sure.  Her good-natured spirit, however, shone out from her visage like a beacon-light.  'I am Ora,' continued the woman with a welcoming smile.  Her voice was fast but familiar and easy.  Her instant impression was one of kindliness and inclusiveness.  'My real name is Oraleen, but that is _such _a mouthful that everyone calls me just plain Ora.'  She chuckled.  'Mind you though,' she continued in a chatty tone, motioning for the bemused Mithmír to follow her down the street.  'I didn't learn from it!  My three girls are Araleen, Erileen and Iraleen; and they have to be called Ara, Eri and Ira respectively, because their real names are too long and _far _too similar.  Their mother is a silly hen who didn't think that she wouldn't be able to distinguish, at a shout, one of her children's name from the other.'

Mithmír, feeling like she was being left behind, broke in: 'I am Mithmír Rochiwen, and I am pleased to meet you.'

It was then for the first time that Ora looked directly at her.  She beamed.  'You are one of those Ranger folk, aren't you?'  She asked.  Mithmír, suspicious as always, half-glared at her; but the woman seemed to be showing no sign of malice or distaste.

'Yes,' replied Mithmír slowly.  'I am.'

'I thought you were, even though it is odd to see a girl,' nodded Ora busily, pushing a gate open and barging through.  Mithmír followed uncertainly into the cluttered yard.  'I have nothing against your folk, unlike the other good people of Bree.  I know the truth of them – or at least, as much truth as any can at this time.'  Her dark eyes met Mithmír's momentarily; and there was a great wisdom and perception in that gaze.  Mithmír knew instantly that she did not need to lie for this stout-hearted woman; and as any Elf she trusted her intuitions and feelings.

'And what is this truth?'  She asked, following Ora into a long, low house.  Inside it was surprisingly bright; a kitchen-living-room lit by many candles.  Amid the clutter and many articles of a comfortable, family life lay a huge table, easily large enough as to seat near fourteen people.  It was on this which she and Ora deposited the baskets; which appeared to contain mushrooms.  Mithmír had never liked the "odd little growths" as much as most of her acquantinces, and backed away from the overpowering smell of them that reached for her as soon as Ora whipped off the covering cloths.

Ora beamed.  'You Rangers wander the woods about here, and many other places too if I'm right, _protecting _the Bree lands from evil things.  And in return,' she said with a roll of her eyes, 'we ostracize you from society!'

Mithmír was amazed that any of the Bree folk knew that Rangers were helpful.  The people of that land were kindly at heart but mistrustful.

Ora laughed.  'I can see from your eyes that I've hit the mark with my guess, or at least part of it.  I don't doubt that Rangers have even more secrets than that, but don't we all.'  She smiled genially.  Ora was one of those wonderful women who appears to be a mother to everyone; and the perfect hostess into the bargain.  To prove this she bustled over to the kettle, filled it, put it on the stove, and was about to start chatting away again when a tall figure, who had a slight limp, entered the room from outside.  Mithmír spun around on one foot to face the newcomer instantly – even a safe, comfortable environment like this couldn't make her relax totally.  Few things could make a Ranger relax after they had seen what the Wild had to throw against them.

It was a man, and one – to her horror – who had seen her brawl in the Prancing Pony a bare twenty minutes before.  And by the disgusted look on his face, he remembered _her _just as clearly.

'Ora!'  He bellowed, moving towards Mithmír threateningly.   'Have you any idea what you've welcomed into our _home_?'

Mithmír set her jaw determinedly, and ducked past the irate man to make for the door.  'I'll go,' she said clearly, and moved out at a jog; not turning to meet Ora's eyes.

As she moved away from the house into the sun, she heard the man berating the kindly Ora:

'She's a Ranger!  And what's more, she's an Elf!  She can't be trusted!  She could have murdered you, _and _the babe upstairs, in cruel and horrible ways before I was home to protect you!'

Mithmír did not hear Ora's reply.  She moved silently away from the homestead, a great bitterness rising in her, but not surprise.  This happened wherever she went; and she could never be at peace with other people.

She was a Dúnedain, and far above these mere peasants, and yet she was the brunt of their jokes and taunts.  The anger that the knowledge gave her nearly sent her over the edge again.  'I must leave,' she whispered decidedly, and so she did, a grey shadow slipping over the gate and disappearing into the woods beyond, seen by none.


	3. Uncle

She made for Weathertop with all the speed she could muster.  Her feet instinctively took the paths known only to the Rangers; the hidden ways that wound through woods and over rocky moors and broken lands long uninhabited – though she avoided the Midgewater Marshes.  The only things to see her were the – rare – wildlife: circling birds and stalking foxes, and rabbits which fled at her coming.  As far as she knew no humans wandered then: no Men, Elves or Dwarves.  She caught no trace of any Ranger, but then that was to be expected – they would travel as light as she, leaving no marks of their passing.

It took her fleet steps only three days to reach Weathertop.  She arrived very late at night on the third day; and set up her "camp" in a dell well known and used by the Ranger folk.  The last person to be there – maybe Aragorn, her father Dîntir, or one of her other relations – had left a large, but well-disguised, pile of freshly-cut wood for a fire.  She took what she needed, whispered a silent thanks to whoever had done the deed, and made her fire.  She had been learning how to make flame with only flints since she was a child whose tiny hands could barely clasp the stones; and so it was quickly and deftly that she made a decently-sized blaze.

She caught a rabbit and, after skinning and roasting it, devoured the carcass with great relish.  She had wandered many miles from Bree with no taste of meat.  When Mithmír was sated she checked a final time around her camp for anything unusual, weakened the fire to mere embers, and then lay herself down to sleep in the ever-diminishing circle of firelight, a thin blanket wrapped around her.  She did not sleep deeply – few of the Dúnedain ever do, even when in safe houses such as those of the Elves – and was always alert for any sound that heralded the presence of any foe, or even a common traveler.

She was not careful enough, however, for she woke as usual at dawn to see her uncle Aragorn sitting by her.  She got up into a sitting position wearily, stretching as far in all directions as she could.  Mithmír tried to not reveal just how irritated she was by the fact that Aragorn could _always _do this – creep up on her silently.

'Good morning, elfling,' said Aragorn unemotionally, using his habitual nickname for her.  The name bothered Mithmír greatly – she was still a proud teenager, after all, and to her the name sounded childish.

'Good morning,' she replied curtly, and tamed her hair with her fingers.  'When did _you _arrive?  Or have you been tracking me all of my most recent journey?'

'I arrived barely three hours ago,' he said simply.  'I knew where you were, but I was not tracking you.  I have other ways of being aware of wanderers.  There're mushrooms from Maggot's farm by the fire,' he continued evenly, pointing over to a covered wicker basket.  Mithmír lunged for it – mushrooms were not her favourite delicacy, but hunger gnawed at her belly like a wild animal.  Aragorn watched her eat with placid eyes; innocent love clear in their dark depths.  He cared for his young "niece" – they were definitely related, but not that closely – like a daughter; and was loath to scold her – but knew he must.  He waited till she had eaten; and then washed; and then settled down to clean her sword, before he could bring himself to speak.

'There was quite a commotion in Bree when I was last there,' he said as a starter, and waited for her reply.  None was forthcoming.  He sighed inwardly – by the determined way she sharpened her daggers, she wasn't going to make this easy for herself _or _him.  He hadn't expected her to – she was always as stubborn as her father, Dîntir – but he always hoped.  A little mature control wouldn't go amiss in this wild maiden.

'They said a Ranger had caused a brawl in the Prancing Pony,' he continued slowly, giving her full time to defend herself, which she didn't.  He hated playing the reprimanding, criticizing parent – he didn't want to be like that in her eyes.  But it seemed there was no choice; and he had promised her parents that, if they were absent, he would "keep her in line".

Mithmír scowled down at her sword.  She loved Aragorn dearly, and would do _anything _for him, but sometimes he was infuriating in his criticism.

'A _female _Ranger,' he continued.  '_The _female Ranger.'  She still didn't look up.  This irritated him – he was very aware that he didn't intimidate her in the slightest, and he felt control of the situation slipping from his grasp.  He didn't _want _to be in command of her constantly, but she _was_ a teenager and should take her lessons seriously.  He cringed inwardly, hating how he was acting.  'Look at me, Mithmír Rochiwen, daughter of Dîntir and Lómwing Melkalwen,' he ordered finally, in a stern voice.

She looked up, a feirce fire in her brown eyes which were so like his.  '_So_?'  She asked curtly, glaring at him.  'I was _provoked _and defended not only my honour, but all of the Dúnedains' also.  You always tell me that honour is paramount in the beliefs of the Númenorians.'  She smiled almost victoriously.  Mithmír had a sharp tongue and a quick mind; a lethal combination in Aragorn's eyes.  He needed all his wits to keep ahead of her; and he barely managed it.  Often he thought that it was unlucky that she was so close to him in kinship, for it made her rude and impolite to him; as opposed to the other Rangers' awe.  That thought, however, was quashed instantly by the joy and gratitude he felt at being so close to what he genuinely perceived as a very special young woman.

'I know the story, Mithmír,' he said in a softer voice, coming over and sitting beside her.  He put one of his arms over her shoulders and drew her unresponsive, statue-still body down into his lap, so she was formed to look up at him from below with stony eyes.  'And I sympathize with your feelings at that moment.'

Valar, how she hated that tone and above all that word – _sympathize_.  Sympathy bothered her.  She was not weak enough, or so she believed, to need it.

Unaware of her mental disgust, Aragorn continued.  Absently he stroked her hair paternally – there was nothing sexual in his closeness with her, merely unadulterated adoration and love.  'But you must learn – fighting like that, whether you win or lose, only strengthens the Bree-landers' bad opinions of the Dúnedain – the Rangers.'  He chuckled a little at the naïve nickname.  'You must see that ignoring brainless fellows like that farmer is far better in the longer run.   You may have paid Butterbur back for the _material _damage, but you have made an enemy for life – Men do not forget shame at the hands of a girl-maid easily – and tainted many opinions.  Do you understand?'

She sighed, and rolled her eyes.  'Yes, Uncle.  I won't do it again.  But it _was _his fault, and they _were _lies.'

'I know, nín hên-gwilwileth [_my butterfly-child_],' he said comfortingly, leaning down to kiss her forehead tenderly.  She wriggled under his tickling beard as she had done since she was a mere babe-in-arms; and smiled at the affectionate name he graced her with only when he was in a good mood.  And he must be happy indeed, for the occurrence in Bree not to sully his emotions overly much.

'What makes you so happy?'  She asked inquisitively.  Mithmír rarely thought something without voicing it in some form or other.

Aragorn laughed heartily, pushing her gently out of his lap and getting up.  He began to remove traces of the fire.  'Oh, many things, my elfling.  The fair day, the joy present in the Spring…'  He laughed again.  'But most of all there are two reasons.  Both shall occur because I head for the Last Homely House, and the realm of the Elf-Lord Elrond Half-Elven.  Firstly…'

'Arwen!'  Broke in Mithmír with a knowing grin.  Her uncle's love for the Evenstar was something she was well aware of; and she never doubted that they should be wed in the end; whether that end was soon or late.

'You know me too well,' he continued with a grin.  'Yes, I am overjoyed at the mere thought of seeing Arwen Undómiel in all her radiance.  But there is also another reason – and it concerns you, and a wondrous gift.'  He winked at her; knowing it agonized her to be in such suspense.

'_Tell _me!'  She begged, packing away her things.  '_Tell _me, Aragorn!'

'You shall find out in Imladris, in Rivendell,' he replied with an infuriating grin.

'Always I must wait!'  She moaned in a (mostly) joking way, melodramatically clasping her head as if in pain.  'As long as it shall be worth it, I will survive, however.'

'It shall,' he said simply.  'It shall.'

***

Hope you enjoyed and please review!


End file.
